


hide your eyes, we're gonna shine tonight

by sylveondreams



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Party Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24634705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylveondreams/pseuds/sylveondreams
Summary: After a little bit of wrestling with layers and a hand from Jet, the hook-and-eye fasteners are closed and Poison has a huge grin on their face. The bulky, colorful skirt doesn’t quite go with their jacket, but it’s an eye-catching ensemble. When they spin too fast and lose their balance, grabbing onto Jet’s arm, the layers fan out and twirl with them, showing off the colors underneath the blue on top everywhere rather than just where they’re gathered at the side. “Fuckin’ shiny. Thanks, Jet.”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	hide your eyes, we're gonna shine tonight

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'Party Poison' by some band ive never fuckin heard of called 'my chemical romance'
> 
> alt title is the entirety of 'Planetary (GO!)'. just all of it. instrumental tracks and all.

There are hundreds of old gas stations out in the Zones, graffitied and washed over with dunes of sand. They stand alone in the desert, remnants of old roads that used to, and in some occasions still do, criss-cross the sandy plains. The best ones have gnarly little bushes growing out of the tops and broken windows, and the best ones for other uses have solar panels folded on top and windows guarded with chain-link. 

A safe distance from Battery City is one such gas station. Its sign, battered by sand and no longer luminous, once said ‘Shell’ but has been modified to say ‘hello’, some killjoy’s logo spray-painted over the old Shell logo. Sand piles up over the roof and holds the back door securely closed under a dune. The front windows alternate between boarded up and covered with additional coats of unbroken glass taken from the old refrigerators inside. Old shelves and stock units from inside form a makeshift wall around part of the filling station outside, cover from at least one side for vehicles parked there. And inside is the best place of all for a band of zonerunners to spend the night. It’s sparse, sure, but it’s hidden from the outside world and a safe place to sleep. There’s not much in the way of furniture inside the building, truth be told, but there are a number of cushions lifted from the city that provide soft spaces to sleep on for at least three bodies. (Four can fit, if they shove the cushions together.) 

Today, a beat-up old Trans-Am sits in the shade of the partially collapsed outdoor roof, sheltered from view by old refrigerators, shrubs, and sand. The paint on the rear bumper is chipped where it was shot at earlier in the week, and Fun Ghoul stands squinting thoughtfully at it, his bandana pulled over his face and a can of spray paint held loosely in his hand. The others are inside. 

Kobra Kid is sprawled on the floor, his jacket off and his shirt pushed up to feel the cool tile on his skin. Next to him sit Jet Star and Party Poison, cross-legged on the cushions, staring intently at the mound of fabric in Jet’s lap. Jet Star holds a needle in his hand and is resolutely ignoring Poison’s lean towards him. 

“I don’t think I’ll be ready by the end of the week,” says Kobra, staring up at the stripped ceiling. “The bandages on my hand are making it hard to play.”

“Heard there were Dracs by the old factory yesterday,” says Poison. “You’ll have another week.” They shift to poke a colorful fabric in the pile in Jet’s lap. “Can you put this one on top?”

“I’ll pin it up so you can see it,” says Jet, and bends down to grab his notebook from the ground.

Kobra wiggles his fingers at the ceiling, the several bandaged fingers on his left hand moving stiffly together. “You think?”

“Yeah.” All three look up as Ghoul enters the building, the door crashing shut behind him. 

The spray can clatters to the tile, followed shortly by Ghoul, who shrugs off his jacket and pulls up his shirt like Kobra. “Whoever made it so fucking sunny out should be shot.”

Poison shapes their fingers into a gun and mimes firing it at the ceiling. “Fuck the sun.”

“Fuck the sun,” repeats Ghoul and puts the back of his gloved hands over his eyes. The bandana, undone, slides off his face and onto the floor. 

Jet snorts and pulls a few pins from the cushion next to him, pinching the fabric in his lap and pushing the pins through. The fabric gathers on the pin, the hodgepodge of colors beneath the summery blue on top showing themselves. 

“Yeah,” says Poison enthusiastically. They flop backwards onto the cushion, pushing their scraggly hair out of their face. The air conditioning, powered by the solar panels Kobra earlier climbed onto the roof to unfold, kicks back on with a hum. “I’m gonna look fucking spectacular.”

Jet Star sews so long in silence that he’s starting to think the others have fallen asleep on the floor, when Fun Ghoul sits up, grabs Poison’s boot, and yanks. Suddenly, there’s a flurry of movement as Poison kicks at Ghoul and rolls off the cushion to wrestle with him. Jet shoves his cushion over to be closer to Kobra, who actually appears to be asleep, and, out of harm’s way, continues to work the needle through the waistband he’s been sewing on. 

There isn’t a clear winner of the fight when it finishes, but Ghoul gets up, grabs his spray can, and goes out to the car, leaving Poison seething on their cushion. There is another long moment of silence, punctuated by the air conditioning kicking on once more. Then the door opens again and Ghoul returns with a stack of beat-up comic books from the car. 

"Hmh," says Poison, still annoyed, but falls back to let Ghoul flop across them. He passes a taped-up book up to them. 

When the static on the radio in the corner crackles louder and fades into Dr. D's voice, Kobra finally wakes up. He rolls over to look at the radio and studies the neon angel painted on it like it's the one telling him about Drac sightings near the drive-in in Zone 2, not too close to the gas station they're parked in but not far. 

"Do you think we should go?" Jet asks Kobra. It's past the hottest part of the day now, and zonerunners, like the other animals of the desert, prefer to spend the time when the sun's rays are the harshest under cover. 

"Are you done?"

Jet Star ties off the thread fastening the hooks to the waist and severs it with a flick of his pocketknife. He holds up the garment, shaking it out, and apart from a loose pin leaping to the floor, nothing moves. 

Poison looks up past their book, peering over Ghoul. They echo their brother. "Are you done?"

Jet nods. Poison shoves at Ghoul until he closes his book and rolls off of them. 

After a little bit of wrestling with layers and a hand from Jet, the hook-and-eye fasteners are closed and Poison has a huge grin on their face. The bulky, colorful skirt doesn’t quite go with their jacket, but it’s an eye-catching ensemble. When they spin too fast and lose their balance, grabbing onto Jet’s arm, the layers fan out and twirl with them, showing off the colors underneath the blue on top everywhere rather than just where they’re gathered at the side. “Fuckin’ shiny. Thanks, Jet.” 

The radio crackles into music as Jet inspects the skirt on Poison, making sure there aren’t any hems he missed. Finally, he straightens up, looking incredibly pleased with his handiwork. “You’re gonna wear it to the theater?”

\---

The theater was a movie theater, once upon a time. An early gang of killjoys had smashed down the interior walls, removed all the furniture, and (accidentally) opened up parts of the roof. They’d made it structurally sound again and rigged up lights and sound and air conditioning, kind of, and after they’d abandoned it everyone else in that area of Zone 4 decided to move in about once a month around the full moon for a show. Even if the floor inside is permanently covered in a layer of sand and there are support beams in the way everywhere, it’s reasonably big and it’s loud and it’s far enough away from the city that Dracs can’t usually make it there alive. 

Party Poison sweats in their blue leather jacket and the layered skirt. Even separated from the rest of their gang, a thing which usually makes a killjoy nervous, they’re having a great time. They’re in the pit near the stage, crashing into other killjoys and not minding the danger to their skirt from guns and belts that could snag in it. 

The only danger Poison really minds is a boot to the head. Joshua Tree, this gang’s bassist, likes to sit on the edge of the stage, tongue in her teeth as she concentrates on the heavily painted instrument she bends over. During the break between the last two songs, she dropped down to sit, accidentally kicked Poison in the head, apologized, and complimented them on the new skirt. Now, her boot hovers around their face level, so they drift a little farther back into the crowd to avoid another incident. 

The other three are farther back in the pit, knocking around within eyesight of each other. Kobra thinks he has eyes on Poison, or at least it’s _probably_ them up in front with the dirty red hair and blue jacket, dangerously close to Joshua Tree’s foot. 

In the middle of a song, Fun Ghoul pushes over to Kobra and shouts directly into his ear. “Water? I’m fucking parched!”

“Yeah!” shouts Kobra back, and Ghoul moves away again through the throng of brightly colored zonerunners. He doesn’t return for another song and a half, but when he does he passes refilled flasks of water to Jet and Kobra and melts right back into the energy of the crowd. 

When Popular Band finishes their last song to raucous cheering and retreats to the back of the stage to cool down and put away their equipment, the pit slowly melts back into just a tight crowd of sweaty, excited, and tired killjoys. 

Poison somehow catches sight of the others and heads back towards them. “Joshua Tree kicked me in the head,” they say when they reach them. Strands of sweaty red hair stick to their face and go past their eyes, but they ignore those. 

Ghoul gives them water. “Again?”

Poison downs it and wipes their mouth with the back of their hand. They ignore the question and pose their own. “Are we helping Radio and Devil tonight?”

“Yeah,” says Kobra, touching his bandaged hand like he thinks that might hinder his cleanup efforts. 

As everyone trickles out, there are a few compliments tossed at Jet and Poison for the shiny new skirt. Finally, it’s just the four and Radio Rabbit and Neon Devil, who live in the hidden apartment above the theater. Devil pulls the heavy lightswitch, plunging the room into darkness, and the rest head to the pile of brittle branches behind the stage. 

“Are you playing the factory when it’s open?” Radio asks Kobra as they fan out, mixing up the sand with the branches to scrub away footprints. 

Kobra nods, and it’s kind of visible now that everyone’s eyes have adjusted to the moonlight spilling in through the holes in the roof. “I cut up my fingers bad on some fencing the other day, but I think they’ll be usable by then.” 

“We have to find another amp!” shouts Poison from the other side of the theater, their voice falling flat on the sandy floor. “Dracs found the house in Zone 2 we were squatting in.”

“Dusted ‘em,” says Ghoul. “We had to run. Mine got left behind, and they smoked the house.”

“Poison called it ‘purifying flames’ or some shit,” Kobra says, and Poison laughs across the sand. 

By now, Devil’s covered the stage in sand and is busy draping dirty sheets over all of the equipment they can reach from the ground. “I think we have an extra. Riot Squad left his things here before he headed for the city and met those Dracs in Zone 1.”

“Shit,” says Jet. 

“Yeah,” says Devil. “We trailed him, but they were gone by the time we found his bike.” They wave a hand vaguely towards the corner of the theater, where a bunch of crates shelter something covered in painter’s cloth. It’s about the size of two bikes: Devil and Radio’s, and Riot’s. “No mask, no body.”

“We heard,” says Jet in a low voice. It doesn’t make it to Devil, but Radio hears. 

“Dr. D picked it up?”

“Yeah.”

The branches return to the corner, Poison guides the Trans-Am through the double doors and parks it by the stage, and everyone retreats up the hidden ladder to the apartment above, Poison one-handed because they’re holding their skirt out of the way of their feet. It’s crowded with things, and there’s a sign above the large bed, only visible in the darkness because of its big lettering, that says “NO DIRTY KILLJOYS IN THIS BED”. Fortunately, the last occupants rigged the pre-existing shower up to a tank and water filter, so dirty killjoys don’t last long in the apartment.

While Kobra takes a shower, the others push open one of the dirty windows and climb out onto the small balcony. Since the theater is in Zone 4, the sprawl of Battery City is nothing but a small glow on the horizon. 

“I dreamed about Destroya last night,” says Radio, looking off in the direction of the giant metal head that shelters the android from the sun. “She told me where they dropped Riot’s mask. I’m gonna take his bike out tomorrow to pick it up.”

“In Zone 1?” asks Devil. The conversation sounds like one that would just be between the two of them, so the others stay quiet, looking off towards the dark horizon.

“In some bushes not far from the city.”

“I’m coming with you,” says Devil. Radio sighs. 

“Do you want us to come?” asks Poison. 

“Take his amp and go practice. There’s a caved-in warehouse just north of here. It doesn’t look safe, but someone reinforced an open space and set up solar panels,” Radio says. “We’re the ones who saw him last.”

When the moon passes its zenith and all the killjoys are showered and watching the stars and satellites wheel by, light flashes to the northwest. Fireworks shoot up above the sand, and the cracks of their explosions reach the theater through the still desert air, seconds after the colors bloom into the sky. The show lasts several minutes before it fades into smoke trailing across the sky, lit by moonlight, and the outlaws on the balcony clap and whoop for someone who can’t hear them across the desert wastes.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at [sylveondreams](https://sylveondreams.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
